Revolt
Bill sat with Burt, off duty but part of a 6 man detachment occupying a guard house in the middle of the city, not far from the Hanged Spakka. They sipped a cup of tea, a foul brew made from roots and leaves. Burt claimed it made him irresistible to women, something Bill thought more than a little dubious.
Jims, on watch, spoke. “Patrol coming in.”
All six soldiers sat up and watched four soldiers make their way to the guardhouse with weary steps. Bill added more water to the tea kettle over the fire.
A grizzled corporal led them in, accepting a cup from Bill before going to sit beside the sergeant who commanded them. Bill strived to hear him speak as he served the others.
“Pixie,” said the corporal and Bill’s sergeant stiffened. Burt hid a grin. “Coming down the Great North Road, bold as bloody brass.”
“Just the one? Did you arrest him,” said the sergeant, his voice low and brim full of concern, wiping the smile off Burt’s face.
“Yeah, just the one, thanks be to God. Arrest him? Not a chance. He looks at us like we’re dogshit and buggers off into the slum. Not following him in there.”
“If you see one, there’s a dozen at least,” said the sergeant, slumping back against the wall. “This city is like a keg of brandy on the bonfire, ready to explode at any moment. Who will you report it to?”
The corporal shrugged. “Not many of us old ‘uns left, sarge, who knows what a pixie means. None of them orficers know what I’m talking about. I ain’t telling any of them, they’d just laugh at me like your stupid soldier there.”
Burt rolled over, the smirk clear on his face. “No wonder, who wants a corporal or sergeant scairt of little blue kiddiwinks, hey?” He roared with laughter at his own wit, oblivious to the lack of accompaniment.
Bill plucked up his courage. “Um, corp, so what do you mean by a pixie if not one of those fairy things the kids play with at home, the toys, like.”
The corporal shot an alarmed glance at the sergeant, who shrugged and answered. “Some idiot made a doll, blue it was, and sold it as a pixie. Now all the kids at home have one and the minstrels make up silly songs about them and magic. Church is behind it, trying to pretend all the old gods’ stuff is so much rot.”
The corporal shut his eyes. “No wonder nobody understands the danger up here. Gimme a minute longer and I’ll go back to the Manor and report.”
The sergeant looked over at Bill, still waiting, and sighed. “It’s like this, laddie. There was a tribe here once, followed the Old Gods they did, called the Sidhe. Fearful warriors they were, big and ugly and vicious. Never were very many, but the local people worshipped them as if they were gods themselves.”
Bill was entranced. First time he’d heard this sort of story, and even Burt was listening. “What’d they look like, boss?”
“Dunno. Never seen one. Stories are they were tall and red headed, big buggers. Thing is, see, there is a bunch of locals who think they were so special they worship them to this day, shave their heads except for a stupid tail at the back and cover themselves in blue tattoos, pictures of these Sidhe. They fight like they’re bloody crazy, don’t care about getting hurt, strip arse-bollock naked and cover themselves in blue paint, called woad. ‘Cos of the tattoos, people call them Picture Sidhe, Picts or Pixies for short.”
The corporal sat up, and glared at them before getting to his feet and kicking his patrol into readiness. He delivered a parting shot to the incredulous soldiers. “So your little fucking blue toy is a based on a sodding great naked tribesman who paints himself blue and wants to cut off your bloody head and piss in the hole. He’ll do it too, if you ain’t careful.”
*
Jeremy was enjoying himself. He sat at a table, one arm around a girl while two more teased him. A bout with Mary followed by an excellent beef rib whetted his appetite for more girls, but he couldn’t make up his mind between Clare and Louise. He suggested that to help him come to a decision, they should feed him beer without using their hands. Clare thought this an excellent idea and loosened her bodice for the challenge as the door smashed open.
“Fuck,” said Mary, “it’s those arseholes from the Manor. Think they’re fucking soldiers and like to hurt girls, probably because they couldn’t hurt a Spakka if they tried.”
Jeremy checked from the corner of his eye, going still in his chair. Six men, all beefy. In some sort of silly uniform, no armour, but all with short swords. Unfit, except for one. Five would be slow, one dangerous. Things were looking up, this could be fun.
“Beer,” shouted the leader of the group as they took up a table, his tone angry, “and send some women over.”
A serving maid rushed over with leather mugs of ale, and a thin girl swayed her non-existent hips as she made for their table, a fake smile across her face. On the stage at the back a new singer made her way to the front, a tall willowy girl with long hair. She nodded to the fiddler and started to sing.
Jeremy jerked his eyes away from the soldiers to stare at her, and found her face fixed on his. Something about the song nagged at him, and he realised it was translated from the Elvish.
“Stay right where you are, Clare, you are not going to those men. Any of you know the singer? Who is she?”
“Her? Oh, she’s one of the Elves,” said Louise, flicking her long hair over her shoulder and smiling down at Jeremy, parting her bodice in the hope of tempting him to her room before one of the men claimed her.
“Elves?”
“Yeah, there’s masses of them in the Wall. Come for the fighting and the cattle. You can’t fuck her, though, she’s just a singer. Besides, what Elf has a pair of tits like these, hey?” She pushed her generous frontage forward.
“Hey, I’m talking to you!” The voice shouted, loud and close. Jeremy removed his eyes and hand from Louise’s breasts and looked behind her, to see one of the soldiers swaying, angry and menacing.
“Were you?” Jeremy drawled. “I can’t imagine it was anything interesting or important.”
Dominic frowned, his hand on his sword but swaggering still as Jeremy remained sprawled back in his chair. This might prove to be just the entertainment he wanted, before the girls. His hands flexed. He needed to kill somebody.
“Yeah, sonny, well I’m taking these girls. There’s men here now so they don’t need kids.”
Jeremy uncoiled from his chair, revealing his lithe body to be a shade taller than Dominic, who backed up a step, uncertain. Jeremy debated with himself, unsure whether to head off to find his colleagues or have some fun. There were only six of them, just one dangerous.
The Elvish singer finished her song, turned and whispered to the fiddler.
“Did you pray this evening, soldier?” Jeremy opened his eyes wide and innocent. The other men watched, the dangerous one ready, the others leaning back and smiling.
“Pray?” Dominic was confused at this change of subject, as he steeled himself to attack.
“Of course,” said Jeremy. “You should go to your God with a clean mind.”
The words dropped into the silence from the singer, sending ripples round the room. The dangerous man stood up while the others spilt their beer.
Dominic took a step back. This wasn’t a local, and didn’t know or care who he was. He looked tough, even he could sense that, and he wondered if he should call for back up. No, his back stiffened. He was the leader, the duke’s son, and needed to prove it, show what he could do.
The fiddler started up, a very different tune, and Jeremy jerked. The call to war of the Elves. The Elvish singer screamed, a sound vibrant and sibilant, redolent with hatred and death, which resonated with the music of the fiddler and caused many to clap their hands to their heads, turning to the stage in astonishment.
“Crom Brionne,” sang the Elf, “see them cry; Crom Brionne, see them sigh.”
Jeremy threw back his head and roared out a war cry at this call to him and his God, causing Dominic to rear back in alarm. Jeremy jumped onto the table and kicked, the toe of his boot going into Dominic’s throat. He fell back with a gurgle, the larynx crushed, a lethal blow, and the soldiers on their table reacted in different ways. One fell over backwards in his chair, two sat transfixed by the scene, confused, one with the thin girl on his lap, another managed to stand and the dangerous man came forward in a half crouch, to catch Jeremy with a testing jab as he landed, off balance.
Jeremy fell back on to Louise, who pushed him up in time to block the man’s overhand right and deflect the swinging left that followed it. The two blows were a mistake and Jeremy took the invitation, swinging forward with his head through the gap left by the attacking fists and feeling the man’s nose crunch under his forehead.
The man staggered backwards, blood streaming down his face to be replaced by the second man to stand, his fists up to guard his face, peering at Jeremy over his knuckles. Jeremy feinted at his eyes, the hands went up further and he kicked him hard on the knee, his hard boot heel crunching into the cap with a sickening sound. The girls winced and the soldier collapsed on the ground gripping his knee and screaming like a stuck pig.
The Elf picked up the pace of the song and Jeremy danced a jig for joy amidst the wreckage of the first three soldiers. Bouncers appeared and Jeremy retreated to his table, prepared to sit while they removed the soldiers, but the four hulking men ignored the soldiers and made for Jeremy, each with their own favoured weapon. A cosh, a billy club and a couple of knuckle-dusters. This, thought Jeremy, wasn’t fair and he realised they weren’t bouncers but more soldiers. He dashed a glance at the door, noting other bar patrons joining in the fun, fists and chairs swinging around the soldiers, as more boiled into the room, these ones armed.
One soldier moved to cover the door and the Elf changed her song, dropping the tone low and menacing. “Crom Brionne, time they die!”
Jeremy stiffened, his hand flicked and Billy Club backed up, hands on his throat and eyes wide, before slumping to the floor with his back to the bar. The knuckle-duster twins hesitated, not certain what had happened, and Jeremy danced forward, a knife out and visible now as he weaved in front of them. The first twin slumped to the floor as a bottle exploded on his head, a roar of triumph coming from Louise as a shard stung his face and he moved in on the second, knowing the knuckle-duster would come for his head and catching it on his knife as it did so. Number two screamed, pulling back his hand and holding it at the wrist, gazing in disbelief at the knife sticking out, two fingers flopping without the tendons to control them.
Jeremy glided over to the soldiers table, and found all three dead. The thin girl, whom he now guessed was an Elf, still sat on her soldier’s lap, one hand holding the knife she had rammed under his chin, the other checking to make sure he was dead. The other soldiers to have poured into the room lay scattered around while locals plundered their bodies for weapons and money.
The Elf song changed again, now light and happy, a victory song, and Jeremy found himself singing along.
The bar fight was over, the losers dead or gone, and now the singer approached Jeremy, her body swaying with her music till she reached him and knelt in obeisance, kissing his hand.
“Crom Brionne, you are here, as it was written. Now lead us, bring us to freedom and victory, destroy the tyrant, throw him down and release our brethren.”
The thin girl knelt beside her, taking her turn to press Jeremy’s hand against her forehead before she kissed it and joined the cry for him to lead them. More Elves appeared and humans took up the cry.
Louise came over, still excited over her victory, and she knelt to him, taking his hand in her turn. “I don’t know who the fuck you are, but you fight and you’re pretty. We can do this, the city is waiting for a leader and you’ll do.” Her eyes danced and he grinned, looking around the room as more people poured in. He could hear shouts in the street and the Elven singer was back on the stage, keeping a low, patriotic song going.
A huge, hairy Uightlander, whom he vaguely remembered laying into the late-arriving soldiers, pulled him in to a dance around the bodies while he belted out his own incomprehensible rebel song. Jeremy grabbed a bottle and swigged, the fiery uisge of the north, grabbing a girl and kissing her as he danced before switching to another.
Silence spilt across the room, easing into the corners and the singer faltered to a stop. Jeremy took his head out of Louise’s tits, from which he licked the uisge the Uightlander poured there, and found a tall, muscled, red-haired man standing beside him, bare chested, with a simple leather breachclout and a tunic cloak chained around his neck. A serious sword hung from a baldric as he eyed Jeremy with curiosity.
“The Crom Brionne. You are not what I expected, but I sense the fullness of this truth.”
Jeremy rose onto the balls of his feet, ready for danger, a flick of his eyes taking in the hulking pack behind this man, bulging bare muscles covered in blue tattoos, axes and swords in hand.
“A Sidhe,” he said, derision in his tone. “And where the fuck were you when you were needed? When I held the ford in your bloody name? When I led the Palace Guard up the cliff and we poured over the dark elves, the unbelievers, who only revolted because you bastards hadn’t bothered to come and turn up in too many years.”
Bile and bitterness welling up in his soul, Jeremy pushed forward, prodding the unfortunate Sidhe with his forefinger, while his face bore witness to his shock as he backed up under the barrage.
“You are their fucking God and where were you? You’re supposed to know how to fight, and where were you? The incomparable Niamh died because you did not come; she trusted you and held your shrine believing you would come. Your people worshipped you and they died, died because you did not come, died because they still BELIEVED in you, and it took me and my friends to kill the unbelievers BECAUSE - YOU - DIDN’T - COME!”
Conflicting emotions raced across his face as he backed up before Jeremy ran out of words and the Sidhe stopped under the last prod, as wonder replaced shame. The Picts arrayed either side also backed up, their faces in confusion. A couple drew their weapons and stepped forward, but the Sidhe raised a hand to stop them. He leant forward in wonderment, his forefinger capturing the tear at the corner of Jeremy’s eye and transferring it to his mouth.
“I was not there,” he nodded. “None of my brethren came, for we were not needed with Crom Brionne in our stead. I am not a Royal Scythian, a god. I am Midir, a traveller and warrior. I am returned from the far north where I fought with my brethren in the ice and snows. I travelled home when I felt the disturbance in the aether and followed it here.”
He turned towards his guard, his hand waving to encompass them.
“These fine fellows feel it too, and thought it was me. But it is you, Crom Brionne, who makes the call. It is Crom Brionne who rips asunder the ancient veil. Is is Crom Brionne who demands his God to come, and we for whom the blood sings, we come, we follow.”
Jeremy shrugged his shoulders, grabbed a bottle of uisge and stalked outside, followed by everybody from the pub, the Sidhe and the Uightlander at his shoulders. He turned to face the west and swigged from the bottle. Pulling back his shoulders, he roared at the late afternoon sky, the evenstar peeking over the far mountains.
An answering roar came from the crowd, which swelled as more gathered to the call.
“Niamh! Cordach! Asward! Bren! Brothers and Sisters of the Royal Guard, I remember,” Jeremy screamed into the brooding sky and the crowd fell quiet as they listened. “We stood together at the ford and we died. We scaled the Cliff of Cormacha, never done before, and threw the dark elves to their deaths. And we died. We stood together against the unbeliever, a golden sword in the midnight dark and we threw them down. I remember you all, my brothers and sisters. I stood for you then and stand for you now.”
The crowd swelled around him, the Sidhe first to embrace him followed by all the Picts. Girls wanted to kiss him, bottles of uisge were pressed into his hand and the Elven singer brought back his knives, cleaned and oiled which she presented to him on her knees before singing behind him wherever he went.
The local people ripped off their shirts, and old ladies came running out with pots from which they daubed themselves with blue paint. Uightlanders mixed amongst them, still wearing their plaid while the Elves coalesced around Jeremy, all wanting to touch him, their large eyes alight with wonder. Jeremy’s shirt was tattered, so he pulled it off to reveal crossed belts studded with throwing knives and another two strapped to each wrist.
He could hear people asking about him, and the Elves explaining, the words Crom Brionne whispering along the street. The Elven singer, surrounded by Elves and her fiddler, launched into the Ballad of Crom Brionne translated into Harrhein, the street falling silent to listen. Jeremy sat on a table, for some reason dragged into the street, and waved at the crowds who fell silent. Louise pushed up beside him, wearing just a pair of knickers and her breasts covered in blue woad. She wrapped an arm round his shoulders while watching the singer. Another girl, one he had not seen before came up on the other side and her stickiness made him look twice. Stark naked, she appeared to have tipped a bucket of woad over her head for she was blue from head to toe, bright black eyes riveted on the singer and clasping his hand with a fevered grip.
Jeremy laughed, clinked bottles with the hairy Uightlander and listened to the words which he remembered well.
She sang of the battles and the War God Crom with his followers, his beloved, the Crom Brionne. The desolation that followed with no gods and followers. The revolt and the dark elves, seeking to supplant the king. The arrival of the human who called the gods, sacrificing to their glory. Jeremy didn’t quite remember that bit. At last a Crom Brionne, returned to the fold, leading the armies to defeat the rebels. Jeremy didn’t remember leading any armies, just the remnant of the Palace Guard up the cliff to break the seige, but accepted the cheers with a smile and waved his bottle.
The song continued, with the Crom Brionne leaving Coillearacha only to appear at the moment of greatest need, on the field against the Spakka, slaughtering the Spakka king with a lance through the head. All the audience knew about that, many having seen the action from the battlements and a roar went up that echoed over the rooftops.
“Crom Brionne! Crom Brionne!” The crowd took up the chant, while Jeremy jumped to his feet on the table and waved. The girls jumped at his feet, trying to catch his arms, while the Uightlander lifted him up and with a friend sat him on their shoulders and danced around the street. An old lady, bare blue breasts flying as she chased him, screeched at his bearers who set him down while she inscribed words of power in woad across his face and chest.
The fiddler soared into a high note and the singer started a new song, the crowd quietening to listen. This time she sang of the cruel duke, the high taxes, the brutal guards and the parasitic churchmen forcing a new religion on them, a southern, weak religion. The crowd roared with anger this time, and Jeremy waved his bottle of uisge out of time with the fiddler, a little irritated he was no longer the centre of attention.
“So kill the fucking duke, then,” he said, his words falling into a pool of quiet as the song and fiddle ended with abrupt suddenness.
A surge of anger swept through the crowd, the fiddle sounded again, and the singer’s voice lifted, soaring up high and carrying to the end of the street.
“The Crom Brionne has spoken! Kill the duke! To the Manor!”
“Shit,” said Jeremy under his breath, as the crowd roared, taking up the refrain and surging to the main thoroughfare at the end of the street, the Uightlanders still carrying Jeremy high on their shoulders.
*
Bill stood in front of the guardhouse, looking down the lane towards the Hanged Spakka, wondering if he should call the sergeant. There was nothing actually happening, but the noise from the bar was unusual, just after the off duty soldiers went in with their noble.
He was not prepared for the eruption as hordes poured out, and bayed at the sky.
He didn’t need to call the sergeant.
All six members of the detail stood outside the guardhouse, Bill with his mouth wide open.
“Pixies” said the sergeant. “Oh God, look at all those fucking pixies. We’re done for. Lads, we need to head back to the Manor, but if we split up we’re dead. We need to make a box, and march together with our swords out. Can you do that boys?”
Bill wasn’t sure he could, and wasn’t sure he wanted to go up the street even if it was away from all these blue people.
A clatter up the street as a squad of twenty guards had the misfortune to arrive at that moment, sent to check on the guardhouses and change the guards.
“What’s going on, lads?” The sergeant strolled up to them with his squad straggled behind him. Nobody answered him, their eyes fixed at the drama unravelling. The new sergeant peered down the street just as the crowd roared and started towards them.
Bill’s sergeant reacted first. “Form up on the guardhouse, shield wall, the guardhouse has your back, two lines deep and us sergeants on the corners. We can hold them lads. No weapons, see, we’ll see off these sorry savages”
Bill didn’t believe him, but found himself in the front line of the wall, shoulder against his shield which he stuck in the ground and peered round it with his short sword. He shook, and smelt the acrid tang of urine, wondering if it was his or his neighbours.
The throng stopped fifty paces away, and the man on the shoulders leapt lightly to the ground. In complete silence, he strode forwards, all eyes on him and the two girls at his back. He wore boots and breeks, with two crossed belts over his chest and blue paint obscuring his features and his chest. With a start, Bill realised the girls were naked, great blue breasts taking up his vision despite the situation.
The man stopped, ten paces from the wall, and bounced on the balls of his feet. “Yield,” he said, simplicity in itself. “Yield or die.”
Bill started to throw down his sword, relief flooding through him, when the new sergeant spoke.
“Yield? To a bunch of fucking savages? Feck off, man, we’ll see you all dead and strung from a tree, wankers.”
The man shrugged, half turned away and his arm flicked in the turn. Something flew from his hand and Bill ducked, far too late, before turning his head to see what caused the thump to his right. The new sergeant slumped in the dirt, a knife through his eye. A long thin knife such as Bill had never seen before, never imagined anyone could throw a knife and hit the target.
A girl cried, loud and shrill into the silence, and with shock Bill realised it was a song, one he didn’t understand but feared as the crowd joined in, a great rushing noise where he couldn’t make out a word but felt the hate and blood-lust rise. His sergeant shouted something, he couldn’t make out what it was, when something made his blood run cold.
A girl stepped out of the crowd, swaying towards him, wearing uniform, guards uniform, his uniform. Oh God no, it was his uniform, and the savage was wearing it, the savage who stripped him. Wearing it? No, she draped it over herself, for the blue was everywhere, her hair blue and a large breast stuck out from one side of his tunic, blue.
The girl swayed, just a few feet in front of him and he groaned in pain and anger, before he snapped and jumped to rescue his tunic from those bastard breasts, leaving his place in the line, howling in fury.
Something punched him right in the gut and he gasped, his mouth biting dirt, he was on the floor, looking backwards as two large naked blue Picts jumped into the hole he left, each throttling the soldier on either side. Guilt filled him, replaced by a screaming agony in his gut as he was jerked around.
The girl, laughing at him, pulling at his belly, at his gut, no, his guts which spilled out into her hand. He tried to speak, as she dropped his steaming intestines into the dust. Her hand, with a knife, went south and flames burst into his brain as he screamed, a raw choking agony at the sawing in his groin before she shoved her trophy in his mouth.
“Shut yer gob, cully,” said Kels, laughing. “Yer got it inside a mouth at last.” Skipping she turned to join in the fun with the rest of the soldiers, but she was too late.
“Crom Brionne,” shouted the mob, now waving weapons liberated from dead guards. “Kill the duke! Burn the manor!”
Jeremy led the way, drunk on uisge and adulation, an honour guard of naked blue women around him with hulking semi-naked men on either side, interspersed with Uightlanders and the tall figures of Elves, while Midir strode with his own entourage, all dripping axes and swords to the envy of weapon-less city people.
*
Colonel Donnell wiped a cloth over his forehead and frowned. “I don’t like it. We are going to lose a lot of men and I am not convinced we can even rescue the King, let alone the princess. Too many things can go wrong. Lionel, you are thinking of something. Out with it.”
“Sir, I can’t contribute anything to this. I don’t know the city nor the Pathfinder capability.”
“So what is worrying you?”
“Sorry, sir, it’s nothing to do with this, just my brother is missing somewhere in the city.”
“What, the Kingslayer? Has he been kidnapped? Hmmn, I suppose they might want to use him for political gain, can’t see how though.”
“Not exactly, sir. Last seen he was talking to Countess Blekinsop. He’s probably having a good time in the city, and has no idea there may be hostility towards him.”
Colonel Drummond snorted with laughter and even the marshal smiled. A young Lieutenant opened the door and came in, putting his heels together before speaking to Colonel Donnell.
“Something strange going on in the city, sir. Lot of noise and maybe fighting. Suggest you go upstairs and look from the balcony. I sent Sergeant Briggs off to find out what is happening.”
The balcony did not reveal much, a glow in the far side of the city, but they could hear the mutter of a large number of people shouting.
“Can’t make out the words,” said Wallace. “Come here?”
“Oh no,” said Lionel. “Are there many Elves in this city?”
“What’s that? Elves? Sure, for some reason many come here to work and live. Why?”
“They are chanting Crom Brionne. Means the Beloved of Crom, an Elvish War God. That’s what the Elves call Jeremy.”
Sergeant Briggs appeared, a bemused expression on his face. “Sir, the city is in revolt. Never seen anything like it. Seems the whole lower city has stripped off their clothes, painted themselves blue and is marching on the Manor. They don’t have much in the way of weapons, and I wouldn’t give them a chance, but they’ve wiped out every unit sent to stop them and they are led by a bunch of likely lads, big tough boys. Not just locals, but Uightlanders and Elves. We couldn’t get close, sir, we were spotted by a bunch of women who chased us off. Didn’t want to hurt them, sir.”
A young man in the gaudy uniform of the duke’s personal guard rushed up the stairs while the officers digested this intelligence.
“General, an order from the Duke. You are to bring all available soldiers, especially professionals like Pathfinders, to the Manor and guard the front. I am instructed to inform you it is an extreme emergency, Sir, and you are to proceed with all dispatch.”
The marshal swelled with anger at receiving an order from the Duke, with his old title to boot, but Colonel Donnell forestalled his reply.
“Please inform the Duke that we shall bring our forces up through the gardens so we can consider the situation before deploying. He may expect us forthwith. We understand the importance as we have just seen the uprising.”
The lieutenant gave a sloppy salute and rushed down the stairs, the sound of his horse echoing from the cobbles.
“Well, gentlemen,” said the colonel. “I think the Kingslayer has provided us with a perfect distraction. We’ll get our troops in the back way and the king out before the duke realises what is happening. Move in ten minutes and we will play the chips how they fall. Yes, I know, sir, this is not professional but we have no time. Wallace, you will secure the gardens, Drummond, enter first and move to recover the princess and secure the entrance to the king’s room. Lionel, do you think your boys could give the revolt some support? And let them know about the king?”
For the first time Lionel’s mouth twitched. It might have been a smile. “I reckon we can, sir.”
Lionel met the Lancers coming in at the gate, deserted by the Duke’s guards with all his troops recalled to the manor and filled them in.
“We don’t quite know what is happening, but the lower city is up in revolt and marching on the manor.”
“Bloody hell, Lenny, we’re not sodding policemen, we’re not putting down a revolt.”
“No, we’re not. Especially as they are all shouting Crom Brionne.”
“What’s the silly bastard done now?”
“Good old Jezza, taking them all on!”
Lionel cut through the babble of voices. “Fine, you know as much as I do. We’re joining the revolt as the duke is holding the king prisoner and not treating his wounds. Pathfinders will rescue the king and the princess while we distract the guards. Now remember, the mob doesn’t know we’re on their side. So sing the Elvish song or just chant Crom Brionne.”
The troop rode up the main thoroughfare at a canter, strong voices bellowing out the Ballad of Crom Brionne in Elvish. Half way up they slowed to a walk as the road filled with people. An old woman strode out and stopped Lionel, stark naked, her white hair streaked with blue and her pendulous breasts covered in woad.
“Who the fuck are you?” She snarled at Lionel, shaking a vicious looking broom.
“Madam, I am Sir Lionel Summoner, brother to Sir Jeremy, the Kingslayer, also known as Crom Brionne. The troop is here to support the Crom Brionne.”
“Wheee,” cried the old bat in delight. “Gi’us a lift then, we’re missing all the fun.”
To Lionel’s alarm, she stuck a toe in his stirrup and vaulted up behind him, while his horse shied. She wasn’t bothered, clinging to Lionel like a limpet and cackling at the feel of his chest. “Oooh, you’re a right fine manikin, you are. I’m claiming you for my grandling, I am, she’ll look after you tonight, she will. Get a move on, we’ve gotta catch up. I’m Annette, luv, and I’ll show you where to go.”
In moments the way cleared and four hundred horses cantered up the Duke’s Road, each bearing a young lancer and a screaming blue woman, many of whom stood behind the rider rather than sat, all waving either a sabre or lance liberated from their lancer and trying to urge him to get to the front.
The lancers entered into the fun, screaming and shouting, while calling abuse at each other, betting on the results and comparing their passenger with their friend’s.
*
The Duke tested his arm movement as his squire strapped on the armour. His mouth a thin line as he stared at the Count.
“Rotherstone, where are the men? Why are the people rising? You told me everything was in your control, but first your Spakka army gets spanked and now my people are burning my city. Why did I ever listen to you?”
“Everything is God’s plan; we just need to understand he desires to test us.”
“Test us? Test us! My men are dying out there and where the hell are yours?”
“Mine had to go to ensure the others left as well, and there would be nobody to protect the king.” Rotherstone walked to the window, taking in the scene as the mob marched up the Duke’s Road. He wet his lips. God did move in mysterious ways. He heard the heathen chanting, wondered who this Crom Brionne could be. Some Elvish god, they had so many. Just when everything was in his grasp.
“I shall gather my personal guard,” he said and walked to the door. The duke watched him go.
“I think he’s cutting and running,” said his squire, under his breath.
“I know he is, the arrogant, cold bastard. Follow him, Brian, see where he goes.”
“No, sir.”
“Do as I tell you, damn you.”
“No sir. I know why you are sending me, and I thank you, sir. But my place is by your side, no matter what.”
The duke gripped his shoulder for a long moment, before marching out of the door and down to the guardhouse where he met his commander, Baron Sunder.
“How does it look, Algy?”
The baron glanced around. “Lot of them, sir. Only a few weapons, though. Trouble is, not sure how many of the lads will cut up their own people.”
The duke snorted. “They will soon enough when they realise where they obtained the weapons. Damn fools marching straight up the road. Shield wall to meet them and enfilade them with archer fire from the turret.”
“Certainly, sir. I’ll lead the wall.”
“No, Algy. Give the commands and we will see how it falls. We will lead the wall together; they can’t stand against a wall. Certainly not the Wall.”
His nobles cheered at this, moving outside to start lining up. High in confidence, they despised these northern scum whom they ruled, lands presented to them for their prowess against Spakka and Uightlander over the past fifty years. Each brought with him his own men-at-arms, and they formed the wall with each baron and viscount taking a section, surrounded by his relatives and soldiers. They laughed now, relishing the chance to put down their fractious serfs.
At the sight of the wall, the mob howled. Jeremy howled with them, and broke into a run before the clouds cleared from his brain and he imagined leading the unarmoured, under-equipped and untrained mob into the solid wall of fighting men.
“Stop,” he said, digging in his heels. “Elves, how many with bows?”
“Enough,” said Midir from his right.
“Centre hold hard, Elves with bows to the right and left. Break this wall for me.”
Tall men pushed through the crowd, coalescing right and left, while the mob edged forward, eager to sate their blood lust. Seeing them stop, the wall edged towards them and the Baron’s voice rose from the centre, calling up to a large turret looming over the road, giving the command to fire
Jeremy eyed it with concern. As he watched, a figure was hurled from the top, his crossbow spilling away, followed by two more. More figures appeared on the battlements, all carrying bows which bent. His band of girls moved in front of him, protecting him with their flesh, but the twang of the bows was followed by screams from the wall, and Jeremy realised the archers were Elves, screaming Crom Brionne as they fired on the wall.
His own Elves joined the fire and the wall wilted, holes appearing as the Elvish bows ripped through armour. The first man turned to run towards the barracks and the mob growled. The sound of horses came from behind, and the rebels parted to let a stream of riders through, Matt grinning down at Jeremy.
“Trying to have fun without us? I brought you a horse.”
Jez laughed and swung aboard, sparking an unseemly shoving match between his guards as to who should have the honour of sitting behind him. The mob growled again, worried at losing their chance with the lancers’ arrival, and set off without command, careering at the wall with the front rank of lancers joining in, Will racing Mark for the honour of first arrival.
Will won by a short head, his point straight at the Duke’s chest. The Duke braced for impact, while the soldiers on either side struggled to add their shields to his and readied their swords to chop the lance down. At the last moment, Will swung his point up and lunged forward, squeezing through the open visor of the Duke. The swords came down, too late, snapping his lance and his horse smashed into the wall, knocking men off their feet. The light horse couldn’t stand the impact and staggered, throwing Will clear over the wall to land with a thud. In the moment he took to regain his breath, the Duke’s squire shoved a sword into his side.
The first rank of the lancers, Jeremy with them, streamed through the holes opened by the archers, widening them as they speared the men on each side. Their passengers couldn’t resist the falling apart of the wall, leaping onto staggering soldiers, sharp knives finding the seams of the armour or the slots in the visors. The wall descended into chaos, one naked girl impaling herself on a sword and hugging the soldier to her blue bosom while another ripped his eyes out with her nails. Many of the girls swept up swords, but Midir and his Pixies plus the huge Uightlanders and brawny local boys did the real damage, swinging huge hammers from their work in the foundries, which thumped onto armour and broke bones and heads. A far more effective weapon than any other, especially in the hands of a muscled lout gone berserk.
The rest of the lancers stayed out of the melee, circling round the back and scything down any who fled. Lionel lost his hag, who leapt into the writhing throng with a screech of ecstasy. She grabbed a sword from the floor and started hacking at something. The speed with which the wall disintegrated was staggering, less than five minutes for the imported nobility of the Hardenwall to die.